


through the looking glass

by fiftymillionstars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiftymillionstars/pseuds/fiftymillionstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanaya's not the most social of trolls by far but these are an entirely different breed of Nervous Butterflies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the looking glass

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not sorry (ok maybe I am a little sorry)

 Her very existence is unsettling. She is you but she is not: she is your reflection in a funhouse mirror come to life, wandering through your imagination with a mind of her own. She is different, so different, but at her core you and she are the same. It's evident in the way she holds herself in quiet anger, in the way she glides from room to room with whispering steps, in the way her chest rises and falls with a slight flutter as she breathes. She is fascinating and frightening all at once, a mystery you want to explore but would destroy in the solving.

Most unfairly, she is beautiful. She is beautiful but you are not. You wither at your first look at her, suddenly seeing your outfit for what it really is: a mismatched, childish costume reflecting the ideal of being fashionable, but not the reality.

You feel small and lost and a little bit stupid.

 .

She seeks you out after a while. You hide but it is useless: your inner phosphorescence gives you away in the semi-gloom. (That is another difference between you and her: her skin is a soft, powdery grey with a healthy gleam to it; yours is a cracking electric white, a painfully obvious reminder of just how _different_ you are.) She doesn't approach you, merely waits patiently nearby for you to come out of your space. Frustratingly, she's placed herself between you and the only easy exit from the room you've squirrelled yourself away in; the only other way out is out a window and down a hundred feet to a small ledge that leads elsewhere. You curse your luck. She waits.

Eventually you decide to just walk past her, to just pretend you didn't notice her laying in wait for you. You take a deep breath of air and close your eyes, straightening out your skirt and adjusting your shirts in a vague attempt to boost your confidence. You stride confidently past her.

“Kanaya.”

—Damn.

You pause and turn towards her. “Yes?”

She smiles at you gently, reaching out to clasp one of your hands in hers. “Nothing in particular. I just wanted to talk with you. You are, after all, my ancestor, in the same way I am yours. I've long admired you.”

You turn your head to the side in a futile attempt to hide a blush. “I wish I could say the same of you, but I never found out much about my ancestor.”

She places her other hand on your cheek, turning your gaze back to her. “I am familiar with her tale. Would you like me to tell it?”

You nod. She guides you over to a bench and sits you down, settling herself close to you. You lean in closer as she talks, close enough to feel the faint ghost of her breath to whisper across your skin. Close, but never close enough to touch.

When she is finished speaking you are suddenly aware of just how close you are sitting, of how her bare thigh brushes against the red fabric of your skirt, of her arm that somehow made its way around your shoulders and is now resting gently on your lower back, of her fingers that lightly trace your hip. Your glow flickers and you resist the urge to flee.

“Do you not know how to control the glow?” she murmurs, voice faintly tinged with surprise. You lower your head, embarrassed.

Apparently that's all the answer she needs. She plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your skull, right between your horns. “I can teach you, if you'd like,” she breathes. You inhale shakily.

“I think—” you begin, mouth dry. “I think I'd like to start off with a different subject.”

The corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smirk. “Of course.”

 .

Kissing her is strange and different and perhaps a little bit wrong. It's like kissing a mirror, a mirror of flesh and bone and breath. She tilts her head just like you do, and when she laughs breathlessly it's like listening to a recording of yourself. You want to know her like you know yourself; you want to know what your differences are, where your body ends and hers begins.

Your jerky, instinctive moves are a comical mockery of her smooth, languid motions. She's practised and it shows. You feel very small in her arms. She traces patterns on your skin with her teeth.

She's neither warmer or colder than you; her touch is like that of silk whispering across your body. It makes you shudder. Your glow brightens and dulls with her touch, guiding her fingers to just the right places. “Not fair,” you breathe. She laughs at that.

She's fascinated by the hole drilled into your stomach, kissing at the edges of it softly. Her touch burns like fire. Your breath catches in your throat.

She guides you through the experience gently, oh so gently, sharpening her fangs against the skin of your neck. You do your best to reciprocate but you still feel like you're inadequate, small, not as good as she is, not nearly as good.

 .

“You're a fast learner,” she murmurs into your ear. You laugh, face pressed against her neck.

She runs her hands across your skirt, pausing at one of the seams that didn't turn out quite right. “Did you make this?” she inquires.

“Yes,” you affirm. “It was one of the first things I made that stayed together after a couple washes.”

“I've always wanted to sew my own clothes,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Perhaps you could teach me.”


End file.
